


Do It Yourself

by JoMarch



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:58:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1398892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoMarch/pseuds/JoMarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"How hard can it be to install a showerhead?"</i>  Written for Em Meredith's Bubbleficathon.  For Dianora, who requested dual showerheads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do It Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: None.  
> Disclaimer: I own Fred the Plumber and Mel the Mold Guy. Everyone else belongs to Aaron.  
> Thanks: To my trusty betas Meg, Nikki, Em and Ryo. Special thanks to Nikki, for sharing her Adventures in Mold, thus giving me a plot.

Josh Lyman considered himself a rational, good-natured sort of fellow. As he'd once explained to his assistant, the belligerent, bellicose persona he adapted when dealing with recalcitrant members of Congress was just part of the job. He was, in his private life, quite easygoing.

His assistant had seemed to find this statement amusing.

Today, however, he had proof. Who else but the most even-tempered of men would have remained patiently in his living room for ten minutes while a plumber hacked his bathroom to pieces?

And all because Josh had reported a leaky ceiling to the building superintendent.

The plumber who'd been sent over wasn't what Josh had expected. Instead of a dumpy, middle-aged guy with a butt crack and a beer gut, this plumber was a wiry pixie of a man, who arrived carrying an enormous toolbox that seemed to weigh him down. Instead of being taciturn, this plumber seemed filled with energy and a good-fellow-well-met attitude that Josh found disconcerting.

"Call me Fred," the plumber had immediately announced, as though he envisioned some sort of long-term plumber/client relationship developing. Josh did not want a long-term relationship with a 60-something plumber; all he wanted was for the leak to go away.

Instead of getting straight to the problem of the leaky ceiling, Fred had examined the entire bathroom, commenting on everything from the faucet ("Yeah, those fixtures will corrode in another five years. You should look into getting them replaced.") to the bathroom towels ("Nice and soft. Good quality. You don't seem like the type to buy Turkish cotton."). When he finally turned his attention to the ceiling, Fred had merely shaken his head sadly and declared, "I think we've got a mold situation on our hands." Then, without even asking for Josh's permission, Fred the plumber had taken a scary-looking hatchet out of his toolbox and begun chopping up the ceiling over Josh's head.

Josh couldn't bear to watch. He'd gone into the living room, like the reasonable soul he was, to give Fred enough time to pinpoint the problem. While each new hacking sound emanating from the bathroom caused him to cringe, Josh resisted the impulse to interrupt and ask what the hell was going on in there. Fred, after all, was a trained professional. He knew what he was doing.

Or so Josh hoped.

Besides which, Josh himself was too busy searching the desk for his lease and a copy of his renter's insurance.

"Hey, Josh, you want to get in here and take a look?" Fred called out.

With some trepidation, Josh made his way back to the bathroom.

It resembled nothing so much as a war zone with a grinning pixie at its center. Standing in Josh's bathtub, Fred was surrounded by mounds of black, funky...Josh believed the technical term for the stuff was gunk.

And there was a large, gaping hole in the middle of the bathroom ceiling.

"Pretty cool, huh?" Fred asked.

"No," Josh replied. His easygoing persona was rapidly abandoning him. As he watched the bits of moldy insulation float down the ceiling to land at Fred's Birkenstock-clad feet, he could feel his frustration growing. "No! Not cool! I've been living with that?"

"Yep," Fred said. "Mold's a tricky bastard. You don't know it's there half the time till it's too late to do anything. You're lucky you noticed the leak when you did."

Josh sighed, leaning against the bathroom wall for support. "So what do we do now?"

"That depends," Fred answered. "So far, all we really know is that what you've got here is some form of mold. I can't tell you much about what to do next."

It was no use, Josh decided. He'd tried to be reasonable, and all he'd gotten for it was a hole in his ceiling and a black, mold-filled bathtub. Besides, he was beginning to question Fred's competence. The man, after all, was supposed to be skilled in these matters. Where, Josh wondered, would the country be if he wandered into a staff meeting, looked over some obvious economic projections, scratched his head and offered nothing more constructive than "Yep, what you've got there is some sort of deficit. I can't tell you much about what to do next."

When confronted by what he assumed was incompetence, Josh felt justified in changing tactics. Sarcasm, his assistant was fond of declaring, was his default position. "So who can tell me what to do? The plumber's union? The EPA? Or should I just wait until I stumble across some cable special on how to fight mold?"

Sarcasm, it seemed, went right over Fred's head. "Yeah, I wouldn't do that. Those shows aren't much practical help. I get any number of people messing up their homes trying to be Bob Vila."

Josh closed his eyes for a moment, hoping that he could make the mold-and Fred the plumber-disappear through sheer force of will. Unfortunately, when he opened his eyes again, Fred was still there. Josh submitted to the inevitable and asked, "Fine. So what happens now?"

"That depends on whether the mold's toxic or not."

Josh's voice took on a quality not unlike that of a finely trained boy soprano. "Toxic?"

"Well, you can't live with toxic mold," Fred replied. "Government won't allow it."

Based on the all-too-knowing stare Fred was giving him, Josh could only assume that the Plumbers' Union held the White House Deputy Chief of Staff personally responsible for depriving U.S. citizens of the fun of living with toxic substances. As much as he might want to argue the point, discretion was undoubtedly the best tactic at the moment. Especially considering that Fred was getting paid by the hour.

"Okay," Josh replied, "so how long till we find out whether it's toxic?"

"It could take up to a month," Fred answered. He stepped out of the tub and leaned against the sink. "See, when I say 'mold,' what you need to think is 'asbestos.' It's the same kind of problem people were having with asbestos back in the '70s. Everyone seems to be finding it in their homes these days."

"You say that like it's a good thing."

Fred grinned. "Hey, for me it's a great thing. Sure, it's a big health hazard, but it's good for my business, you know? Anyway, the lab could be backed up. It all depends on how many homes were diagnosed this week. In the meantime, you need to be careful." Fred glanced around the bathroom. "Hard to tell how far it's spread in here. Whole room could be infested."

"The whole room?" Josh jumped away from the wall, brushing off his shirt in case any mold spores had somehow magically seeped through the walls to attack him.

Fred seemed unfazed by Josh's reaction, but then he probably dealt with a lot of stunned customers in the course of a day. "Gotta take a sample, send it off to the labs to be tested. And we'll have to seal off the bathroom, of course."

"Seal it off?"

"More government regulations. What you do while we're waiting is up to you. I don't recommend living here till we find out whether the mold is toxic, but some people tough it out. You can still use the rest of the apartment. Technically."

"Without a bathroom?" Josh asked. "That's not exactly practical."

Fred the plumber shrugged. "But it is the law."

For the first time in his life, Joshua Lyman wondered whether there might be some merit in the Republican Party's position on deregulation. 

*** 

In the weeks that followed, Josh came to think of Fred the plumber as the bane of his existence. Despite the man's cheery, pseudo-hippie, Birkenstock-clad persona, Josh was convinced that Fred was a Republican.

That was the only way to explain why the plumber delighted in torturing Josh.

Donna maintained that it wasn't torture. Fred, she argued, could hardly be held responsible for the lab's delay in getting the results processed. Nor was it Fred's fault that the one time Josh had gone back to his apartment, the place looked like something out of an old _X-Files_ episode: the ceiling had now been completely ripped open, the bathroom door had been removed, and clear plastic tape secured the entry. In front of the tape was a sign reading "Toxic Mold Area! Do not enter! May Cause Damage To Your Health!" And it wasn't only the bathroom that had been invaded. Three men (at least Josh thought they were men; the protective suits they were wearing made it difficult to tell) were operating an industrial blower, presumably to suck the mold out of the ceiling. But the blower had a gigantic tube attached to it that snaked through Josh's bedroom and out the window.

At least he had CJ, Toby and Will backing him up. Unlike Donna, they had come to resent Fred's cheerful daily reports almost as much as Josh did.

Of course, he wasn't feeling particularly well-disposed toward his colleagues either. (This entire experience was playing havoc on his mild-mannered temperament.) Sure, they'd offered to take him in and give him a place to sleep, but they'd all kicked him out. CJ'd muttered about his habit of leaving the toilet seat up and squeezing the toothpaste from the middle of the tube. Will had said that Josh's late night and early morning phone calls to Donna interfered with his sleep. As for Toby, that was not Josh's fault. If Toby didn't want his children adding certain colorful phrases to their vocabularies, he shouldn't have left them in the room while Josh was making emergencies phone calls to members of the House Judiciary committee.

The ultimate humiliation, however, had come two nights ago when he'd been unceremoniously kicked out of the Holiday Inn. According to the manager, Josh's late-night yelling into the phone had disturbed the guests in the room above him. And the room below him. The couple next door had lodged a complaint as well, though Josh thought they'd been on shaky ground, considering some of the noises he'd heard coming from their side of the wall.

He had considered moving in with Donna, but CJ had noticed him two seconds after that thought crossed his mind. It was not appropriate to say that CJ had stared him down; her gaze had gone considerably lower than his eyes. The message, nonetheless, had been clear: The only way he'd room with Donna would be if he'd part with the very organ that would have made living with Donna most enjoyable.

And so, three weeks, two days and four hours after he'd discovered a minor leak in his bathroom, Josh Lyman was reduced to sleeping on whatever surface was available in the West Wing. He'd taken to using CJ's sofa. Not only was it comfortable, it was a subtle way of reasserting his authority after she'd frightened him away from asking Donna for a place to stay.

But a sofa, no matter how soft, was not an adequate bed. Without a good night's sleep, Josh reasoned, people couldn't blame him for being a bit cranky. Especially when Donna announced that Fred was on the line.

"What is it now?" Josh asked the plumber. "Are there mold spores growing in my kitchen? Have termites eaten my furniture? Have a small band of rats taken up residence in my walls?"

"Nope," Fred answered. The man always sounded too damn chipper, no matter how surly Josh got. "In fact, I've got good news. The lab called, and you've just got your basic, garden-variety mold. No toxins."

Josh, who'd slumped down in his chair in anticipation of another round of "we're waiting to hear from the lab," jumped back up. Pumping one arm in the air triumphantly, he yelled, "Yes!"

He was vaguely aware of the sound of a chair being pushed back in the bullpen and the sudden clatter of high heels headed toward his office. Donna stood in the doorway, looking at him expectantly. He realized he must have been really tired that morning if he hadn't noticed how her skirt clung to her hips or how her sweater clung to...well, to all the best places a sweater would cling.

Reminding himself that staring at his assistant's breasts was a major workplace faux pas, Josh shifted his gaze to Donna's face. Try as he might, he couldn't interpret her expression. Did the tight line around her mouth mean she was angry at him for thinking obviously inappropriate thoughts in the middle of the workday? Or did that slightly raised eyebrow indicate amusement that she'd caught him contemplating how alluring she was? Whatever it all meant, the way Donna was staring at him made Josh decidedly uncomfortable. He tried to cover his embarrassment by redirecting her attention to his good news. Covering the receiver with one hand, he said, "The mold's not toxic."

Donna's eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch higher. "From the way you were shouting in here, I assume you plan to take personal credit somehow. Did you bully Congress into passing the Josh's Mold Is Not Toxic bill?"

He grinned, humiliation conveniently forgotten. "No, but I was just starting to draft that very piece of legislation."

Donna's expression was easy to read now. She clearly thought she worked for an idiot. "Well, now I guess Congress will return to minor issues like balancing the budget. How soon till you can move back in?"

Josh turned his attention away from Donna and her wardrobe and back to the phone. "Donna wants to know when I can move back in," he told Fred.

"Hey! Donna's there? Tell her hi."

He clenched his jaw in frustration, but he relayed the message nevertheless. Donna gave a little wave, saying, "Hi, Fred." Josh made a mental note to mock her later for waving to someone who couldn't see her. He'd make sure to go back out to the bullpen and hover over her, in case she was wearing that stuff that made her smell like sugar cookies.

For now, however, he waved Donna off, peering over his desk to watch her walk away before returning to his phone call. "When can I move back in?" Josh asked again.

"Well, that depends on how long the remodeling takes."

"Remodeling?" he yelped. He could feel his good humor slipping away again.

"Yeah, the ceiling's pretty much destroyed, you know, so that has to be taken care of. Then there's the bathtub. There's a lot of work to be done there. Plus you're going to have to consult with my mold guy."

"You have a mold guy?"

"Yep," Fred answered. "My mold remediation specialist. He'll explain what still needs to be done. He's in charge of clean up and repair, plus the preventative stuff. Don't want this happening again, after all. He's already cleaned out the walls for you, of course, but you'll need to talk with him about the details. We can meet with him this afternoon. Bring Donna with you."

"Yeah, fine," Josh replied. The idea of a mold remediation specialist was so bizarre that it took him a second to register the second part of the message. "Bring Donna?"

"Yeah, I want her to meet Mel."

Josh lowered his voice, so as not to disturb anyone who might be working outside. In the bullpen. Smelling like sugar cookies.

"Why does my assistant need to meet your mold guy?"

"Oh, Mel's more than a mold specialist. He's my son."

"Your son the mold guy," Josh repeated. "His mother must be proud."

"Very." Even after weeks of dealing with Josh, Fred still seemed incapable of detecting sarcasm. "He graduated from Stanford, you know. With honors."

"Honors in mold?"

"Architecture, actually. The mold thing was a way to expand the family business, especially since mold is-"

"The new asbestos," Josh said. "I heard."

"I was going to call it a growth industry." Fred waited for the laugh that didn't come. "Anyway, Mel's a great kid. And, you know, I've been talking to Donna every day for three weeks now. She sounds like a sweet girl. I thought you and I might try a little matchmaking."

"I never interfere in my assistant's private life," Josh said. It was possible, he admitted, that he'd lost the last remnants of his good-natured personality there. He could tell he sounded definitely surly.

After a moment of awkward silence, Fred replied, "Oh," dragging the syllable out as though he'd come to some profound understanding. "Oh. I get it. Sorry. But bring Donna along anyway. I'd like to meet her, and she probably would appreciate having some input about the bathroom remodel." 

**** 

Of course he didn't bring Donna along.

It was an act of charity, leaving her at the office like that, Josh told himself. Why put Donna through an excruciating hour listening to Mel and Fred recount their Adventures With Mold? What possible enjoyment could she get from spending an afternoon with the Plumbing Pixie and his moldy offspring?

Not that Josh was convinced that Mel was Fred's son. In fact, the more Josh thought about it (his mind began to wander as Mel told him more about mold than any human being needed to know), the more Josh thought that Mrs. Fred must have slept around in her youth. No way had short, thin Fred produced this six-foot, muscle-bound Brad Pitt wannabe.

Plus the way the guy dressed was the opposite of Fred's counterculture approach to fashion. What the hell kind of contractor/mold remediation specialist wore an expensive three-piece suit on the job?

And then there was that title. Mold remediation specialist. A phrase like that had entertainment value, sure: Just the thought of repeating it in front of Toby made Josh grin. But what the hell kind of job description was that anyway? How did Mel even fit it onto his tax forms?

No, Donna was much better off not being exposed to this guy.

"We can handle the remodel for you, of course," Mel was saying. "We brought a sample book you can look through to help you decide on fixtures. If you'll look at these showerheads, for example..."

Josh glanced at the book sitting on his coffee table. As he had no particular interest in bathroom fixtures, he was about to tell Fred and Mel to choose whatever was cheapest. But then he saw The Picture.

The Picture was, not to put too fine a point on it, inspiring. It was a picture of a showerhead. Not just any old showerhead. This one was bright and shiny, its silver chrome self looking as though it would never tarnish, never rust, never need cleaning. It was a showerhead that would, forever and ever, be immune to mold. A feeling of serenity and, well, cleanliness enveloped Josh as he contemplated that showerhead.

It was a feeling that had nothing to do with the rest of the picture.

For this was not just an ordinary showerhead. Oh, no. It was a dual showerhead. And the photograph illustrating its uses featured a dark-haired man and an attractive blonde woman enjoying its magical cleansing powers.

That woman, he was certain, smelled like sugar cookies.

Before he knew what was happening, Josh was ordering a dual showerhead. 

**** 

"Are you a crazy person?" Donna asked.

Josh feared that this was not a rhetorical question. Especially since CJ, Toby and Will were gathered around Donna's desk, staring at him as though they too were waiting for an answer.

"No," he said. "The showerhead has to be replaced and-"

Donna waved the estimate she held in her hand. Even the cheery accompanying note from Fred ("Hey, Josh, you made some good choices here. Hope Donna likes your selection.") couldn't temper her fury. "Did you see these prices? You're spending too much money."

"Mel says the showerhead comes with a lifetime guarantee."

"And are you planning to spend your life living in that apartment? Or do you think you can somehow take these items with you when you move?"

CJ, Toby and Will all nodded in unison, like some weird set of White House bobble dolls.

"And why do you even _need_ a dual showerhead?" Donna asked.

"It's functional." Josh dug the picture out of his backpack, where he'd stored it since the day Mel had given him a copy, accepting Josh's excuse of needing to buy a matching shower curtain without question. Or derisive laughter. "See?"

CJ and Donna stared at the picture. Donna snorted. CJ rolled her eyes.

"Yeah," CJ said. "That's practical. Bathing in your swimsuit like that."

"I can't imagine why I've wasted time getting naked all these years," Donna added.

It was possible that Josh was gaping at Donna.

"Josh," Will whispered, "breathe."

It was a helpful hint. Josh took a deep breath and attempted to change the subject. "My mold remediation specialist," he began. As he'd suspected, he didn't have to say anything else.

"Mold what?" Toby asked. "What the hell?"

"Mel," Josh clarified. "Son of Fred, my plumber. Mel is a mold remed-"

"I heard it the first time," Toby said. Turning to Will, presumably the only person in the room qualified to share his righteous indignation, Toby asked, "Who the hell does a thing like that to the English language?"

Will shrugged. "Mel and Fred, apparently."

"Neanderthals," Toby proclaimed.

"Actually," Donna said, "Fred's a sweetie. And Mel's kind of cute."

"What?" Josh whipped around to look at Donna. "When did you meet my mold guy?"

"I didn't." Donna opened a desk drawer and took out a folder. "Fred sent pictures. Seems he was disappointed that I didn't stop by your apartment yesterday." She looked at Josh accusingly. "He really wanted me to meet his son, so he emailed me some pictures instead."

CJ leaned over Donna's desk and looked at the photographs. "Whoa," she said. "I do believe my apartment needs to be checked for mold."

Donna grinned. "He is kind of cute."

"Kind of cute?" CJ shook her head. "That's like saying Michelangelo's David is not out of shape."

"And he's a Stanford graduate, CJ," Donna added.

"A California boy." CJ nodded. "This sounds promising. Josh, how tall is your mold guy?"

"I'm not sure, CJ. I forgot to measure him for you."

"Short-sighted of you, mi amor. Donna, we'll just have to go over there and check him out for ourselves."

While he had no objection to CJ taking up with a mold remediation specialist, Josh was certain he did not want Donna anywhere near Mel and his Armani-wearing, dual showerhead-selling self. It was at that moment that he made a fateful decision.

"You can't," he said. "I'm firing Fred and Mel."

"Firing them?" CJ asked. "For what?"

"Isn't the phrase 'mold remediation specialist' sufficient cause?" Toby retorted.

"I don't need them," Josh said. "The mold's gone. All that's left is remodeling the bathroom. And I can do that by myself."

One by one, CJ, Toby, Will and Donna looked at him, their faces registering a mixture of shock and skepticism.

"You really can't," Donna said.

"Hey," Josh asked, with a confidence he wasn't feeling, "how hard can it be to install a showerhead?" 

**** 

Installing a showerhead was not an easy task.

The first problem, Josh discovered, was that the instructions were written in some incomprehensible technobabble. Ten minutes trying to decipher them reduced him to insulting the author's parentage in a rant that would have made Toby proud.

The second problem was that installing a showerhead seemed to involve using tools. Josh didn't think he owned any of those. Maybe there was a screwdriver hiding in a desk drawer somewhere, but he couldn't be sure of that.

He was, however, sure that one person would know whether he had screwdrivers and wrenches and anything else he needed. Reaching for his cellphone, he dialed her number.

She was not happy to hear his voice.

"For the love of God, Josh, it's Saturday morning," Donna said. Her voice had a slightly deeper tone than usual, the one he thought of as her bedroom voice. Strictly because he only heard it when he called her at home early in the morning, of course. He tried not to become distracted by thoughts of Donnatella Moss in bed on a late spring morning, dressed in some skimpy outfit, one long leg peeking out from under a sheet.

"I need assistance," he began, but she ignored him.

"It is the first Saturday morning I've had to myself in three months," she continued. "I had plans. I made these plans weeks ago. I told you about these plans. Do you not remember?"

He had a vague memory of Donna going on about shopping and treating herself to an expensive lunch. He suspected there was more that he couldn't remember, but he realized that this was not something he should admit. As always, when in doubt he went on the offensive.

"I need assistance," he repeated, speaking quickly before she could reply. "And I thought of you. Funny how that works out, isn't it?"

He could hear the rustling of sheets as Donna presumably propped herself against the headboard. He told himself to stop right there before the images in his head got too detailed. After all, it wasn't as though he could go take a cold shower.

"This had better be important," Donna said.

"Yeah, well, I was wondering..." His voice trailed off as he realized how trivial his question might seem.

"Yes?"

"Do you know whether I have a screwdriver? Or maybe a wrench." He looked at the instructions again. "Yeah, a wrench is what it says I need."

"In your apartment, you mean?"

"Yeah. I'm installing the showerhead, and the instructions say-"

"You called me to ask whether you have a wrench? Why on earth would I know that?"

Josh shrugged, even though Donna couldn't see the gesture. "You know stuff like that."

"God help me," Donna sighed. "I actually do. No, Josh, you do not own a wrench. There's a screwdriver in the kitchen, if that helps. Third drawer on the right."

"Yeah, well, I don't think the screwdriver will do much good. The instructions say I need a wrench. At least I think that's what they say." He tried turning the directions upside down, but they still didn't make any sense. "Swear to God, they were written by whoever came up with the phrase 'mold remediation specialist.'"

"Then you need to buy a wrench. Look under H for hardware store in the Yellow Pages."

Before she could hang up the phone, he said, "But that would break my momentum."

"What momentum?"

"The whole remodeling momentum I've got going here. I'm in the zone, Donna."

"Without a wrench? You must be on the far edge of the zone."

"Yes, but I'm approaching the zone. The zone is within sight."

"Oh, God," she moaned. He could picture her, rolling her eyes and putting one slender hand to her forehead. "You want me to go buy a wrench, don't you?"

"And maybe some other stuff. I'll read you what it says here, and you can get whatever you think I need."

"A lobotomy, perhaps?"

"Donna, come on! It won't take that long. And I'll take you out for lunch when we're finished."

"Fine," she said. "But we're going to a nice restaurant."

"I'll be all showered and clean for it."

"And I'm getting dessert. Very expensive dessert."

"Agreed."

"I'm only doing this so I can tell CJ what an ass you made of yourself trying to install a showerhead by yourself, you know."

"You say that now, but later you'll be raving about my home improvement skills."

He tried not to take her laughter too personally. 

**** 

Donna arrived two hours later, carrying more shopping bags than were necessary for someone whose task had been to go out and buy a wrench. He eyed the bags skeptically. "So they're selling wrenches at Bed, Bath and Beyond now, are they?"

She handed the bags off to him, and he got another whiff of that sugar cookie fragrance she'd been using. She brushed passed him into the kitchen, helping herself to a glass of water. She was wearing cotton shorts and a V-cut blouse that stopped just at her waist. It took all Josh's powers of concentration to focus on her words instead of her legs.

"I figured you needed some new things for the bathroom, so I stopped off and got a bath mat. Also a new shower curtain."

"Why did you felt the need to buy lots of girly stuff when I sent you to get, you know, practical items like wrenches?"

"Open the damn packages, Josh."

Whenever Donna got that tone of voice, Josh did as he was told. The first package did indeed contain a very practical wrench plus any number of tools he hadn't realized he needed, including a large silver toolbox.

He held it up proudly. "It's even bigger than Fred's," he announced.

"I'm not even going for the joke here," Donna called out from the kitchen. "It's just too easy."

He opened the second bag, peering into it hesitantly. "Okay, the colors don't look bad," he said. "No girly pink stuff." He pulled out the first item: a shower curtain in a respectable, manly brown-and-beige stripe. The accompanying bathmat was brown, nothing that Toby or Will would feel the need to mock. "I can live with this," he announced.

"I'm so glad," Donna said, her voice dripping sarcasm. She moved back into the living room, sitting down on the floor where he'd spread out the instructions and the pieces of the showerhead. "So where's the blonde?" she asked.

Josh dragged his gaze away from the sight of her long legs against his carpet. "What?"

"The blonde," Donna repeated. "In the photograph that sold you on buying this thing. Don't tell me you got gyped?"

"Yeah, well, apparently you have to provide your own blonde." Looking at his very blonde assistant, he was suddenly aware that that remark belonged on The List Of Things Josh Shouldn't Say.

Not that Donna noticed. Her attention was focused on the showerhead and its incomprehensible instructions. A few minutes went by before she spoke again. "I'm surprised you fell for it is all," she said. "Buying a showerhead because of some silly promotional picture."

"I did not buy this because of the picture," he said. Realizing that he sounded defensive, he quickly added, "I needed a new showerhead is all."

"You're a single man living alone," Donna pointed out. "A dual showerhead is not the most practical way to go."

"Not that I was thinking in those terms," he began, "but I have been known to..." His voice trailed off as he realized he was heading into dangerous territory. Retreat was his best strategy, so he headed for the kitchen for a beer. "A dual showerhead has many practical purposes," he called out.

"So does my shower massage, but I still use it for something the manufacturer would never officially sanction."

He wasn't sure whether it was Donna's words or the image they conjured up that caused him to hit his head on the refrigerator door.

Donna was at his side immediately, running her hand across his head looking for signs of damage. Maybe he had some sort of concussion, he thought. Maybe that accounted for the unsettling images in his head-a sensuous combination of that photograph and Donna's comment about shower massagers.

He backed away from her, hoping the images would go away if he wasn't close enough to touch her or to smell the enticing aroma of sugar cookies.

He stood with his back against the counter, arms spread out on either side of his kitchen sink. "It's just a showerhead," he said, hating how defensive he sounded.

Donna shrugged. "I just found it interesting that the woman in the photograph was so...not your usual type."

"I have a type?"

"Oh, yeah. Mandy, Amy, Joey Lucas-There's a definite pattern." There was something downright coquettish about the way she smiled at him. "Some people might say you were in a rut."

"Some people would be wrong." He walked back into the living room, his hand on his aching head, Donna following behind him. "No type, no rut."

"You know," she said, "it's possible that you're entering the first stages of your mid-life crisis. Trying to break out of your old routine." She sat back down on the floor, having apparently developed an all-consuming interest in studying the installation instructions. "Hell, at least it's cheaper than buying a sports car."

He crouched down on his heels in front of her. "Right now I'd settle for being able to figure out these damned instructions."

"They make perfect sense to me," she said.

"Really?"

"Yes, Josh, really. What part of 'turn in a clockwise direction' is puzzling you?"

"That is unfair. You take the one sentence that makes sense and-"

Donna rose, motioning to Josh to stand up as well. Placing her hands against his back, she pushed him toward the bathroom. "Don't worry," she whispered in his ear. "I'll talk you through it." 

**** 

Josh still didn't know what the hell a WYE adapter was or how a shower arm could have a "female threaded part," but according to Donna, he was doing everything right. Of course, that was easy for her to say. All she had to do was read the instructions and tell him which piece to pick up next. They were delayed by her inevitable tangents. ("You know, as long as you're doing all this, you should think about painting the walls. How about something in a cream?") On the whole, however, he thought they were making progress. Especially since she was no longer going on about his ulterior motives in buying a dual showerhead.

But then Donna, in the middle of a digression regarding towel warmers and their proper placement, took her eyes off him. At least, she later claimed that the incident would never have happened if she'd been watching. However, since he was simply following her latest instructions ("Now turn the water on and check for leaks"), he decided that she was as much to blame as he was.

It wasn't so much a leak as it was a downpour. Donna, standing safely next to the sink, only got a few drops of water on her blouse. Josh, however, was standing inside the shower in his bare feet. When he tried to tighten the shower arm, he got drenched.

"Son of..." The rest of his curse was cut off by the sheer amount of water he'd swallowed. He stood there for another few seconds, warm water pouring over him, too stunned to move. As a result, Donna was the first one to reach out to turn the water off.

In the normal course of events, Josh would have appreciated the help. However, it seemed as though they were working at cross purposes. When Donna turned the showerhead clockwise, she undid the counterclockwise move he'd just completed. Josh tried pushing the nozzle into place, not realizing that Donna was pulling on it from the other side. Three minutes later, the leak was worse than before and Donna was almost as drenched as Josh was.

She looked much better sopping wet than he did. He found himself staring in fascination at the tiny rivulets of water that fell from the ends of her hair down to the base of her neck. Donna's cotton blouse clung to her body so tightly that he could see the outline of her nipples beneath the fabric. The water falling from the hem of her shorts accentuated Donna's long, pale legs while her bare toes peaked out from the pool of water that had formed in the tub. Josh felt like a drowned rat; Donna looked like a water nymph.

Josh sat down on the edge of the tub and shook his head. "I'm an intelligent man. Swear to God I am."

Donna leaned against the bathroom wall and smiled fondly. "I know."

"But this..." He waved an arm around the bathroom in frustration. "Look what a shambles I've made of this."

"You can't take all the credit," she replied. "I helped."

He grinned ruefully. "Yeah, without you, I'd still be back in the living room, trying to decided whether I needed a wrench."

"Why don't you try it again? I'll just stand back and watch this time."

Donna held a hand out to him, helping him to his feet. He held on to her hand an instant longer than necessary, contemplating how right their hands looked intertwined like that. Before letting go, he gently traced a path from her thumb up her index finger. She shivered in response, and he thought that, for once, he might finally have the courage to give into the impulse to kiss her. But then Donna, ever practical, reminded him that the showerhead was still leaking.

Josh reluctantly let go of Donna's hand, giving the showerhead one more clockwise turn. He was stunned when, this time, the water finally stopped pouring down.

Donna beamed at him. "Fred's got nothing on you," she said.

"Yeah," he replied, "I can hold my own with any 60-year-old plumber in the greater DC area."

Donna leaned back against the wall, her eyes moving slowly down his body. Josh was suddenly much too aware of how tight his water-soaked clothes felt and exactly how they revealed the effect her gaze had on him.

"Granted I've never actually met Fred," Donna grinned, "but I somehow doubt he looks this impressive when wet."

He was actually blushing. Because his assistant had just compared him favorably to a aging plumber. Not for the first time, he considered the possibility that there was something considerably warped about their relationship.

He also realized that if he didn't get out of that tub, he and Donna might end up crossing the boss/assistant line for good.

He started to step out of the tub, but Donna pulled him back. "Where do you think you're going?" she asked.

"To get a towel." He lifted a wet strand of blonde hair and stroked it with between his thumb and forefinger. "You need to dry off."

"Not yet," she said. She closed the distance between them, spreading her hand out flat against his chest. He could feel his breathing growing more shallow as his body responded to her touch.

It wasn't too late, he told himself. Step away, make a joke, pretend this wasn't happening. Let it go. Ignore it, the way they'd managed to ignore every other glance or touch or teasing remark that threatened the careful equilibrium they'd maintained.

Maybe, he thought ruefully, there was something to Donna's theory that he was having a midlife crisis. Because suddenly, trying to keep up the illusion that they were just boss and assistant seemed like too much damn work.

So, without thinking, he did what he'd spent six years thinking about.

He kissed Donnatella Moss.

He was overwhelmed by sensations: Donna's body straining against her wet clothing, the way she tasted like peppermint toothpaste, the inevitable smell of sugar cookies. Better yet was the enthusiasm with which Donna returned his kiss, the laughter he could feel bubbling up inside her and spilling over into him.

It was Donna who took the lead, tugging at the t-shirt clinging to his chest and pulling it over his head. His wet fingers slipped against the buttons of her blouse until Donna helped him get the last few undone.

"Explain to me how two people can suck at basic home repair yet work so well together when it comes to getting naked," he said.

"Simple," she replied. "I haven't spent years imagining the moment when I'd help you install a showerhead."

With that, Donna wrapped her arms around Josh's naked chest and began kissing him. He groaned softly, running his hands over her cheek and into her hair. As she finished kissing him, Josh pressed his lips softly against her forehead and her still-closed eyelids. Donna sighed, resting her head against Josh's shoulder.

"Donna," he began, "I swear, if you're planning on falling asleep here..."

She laughed. "This isn't falling asleep, you idiot, this is savoring."

"Yeah, well, I can think of lots of ways to savor that are more active."

"So can I." She opened her eyes, straightened up, and began tugging at the waistband of his jeans. Working together, they undid his jeans and boxers, the fabrics falling inelegantly to his feet. Josh supposed he should have felt absurd, but he was too absorbed in the way Donna was running her hands across his body to care. As she lowered herself to her knees, Donna took him in her mouth. Josh felt every nerve ending come alive as Donna deftly moved her tongue along his shaft. He was dimly aware of her fingers pressing against his thighs, her thumbs stroking his skin.

He ran his hands through Donna's damp hair, while his desire to simply enjoy what she was doing to him competed with his need to caress her naked body. In a moment of clarity, he considered that this was Donna, after all, and she was quite capable of kicking his ass if she didn't get as good as she was giving. So, with a few regrets, he lifted her back up and unhooked her bra.

Donna's breasts, he soon discovered, were extremely sensitive. He'd no more than grazed them with his mouth before she was moaning. Her lips nipped the flesh of his collarbone. Finally, she guided his hands down to her waist, and he unzipped her shorts. He hooked his thumbs around the edges of her panties, and she gasped as he grazed the inside of her thighs. Then he moved his hands back up, tracing the rise of her hip. Donna finished slipping her panties off, wrapping one bare leg against his thigh. He pressed their bodies closer together, too aware of his need to take her right there in the shower.

He might have done it too if, as Donna later pointed out, he'd had a decent mat in the shower. The shift in balance caused them both to wobble for an instant as they came dangerously close to toppling over. Donna giggled, her breath tickling the base of his neck.

"Trust you to nearly cause me to break my neck doing this," he said.

"It's not my fault. It's the problem with your whole shower fantasy. Gravity-"

"Who says I have a-"

"Please," she snickered. "As if it isn't painfully obvious why you wanted that dual showerhead."

"Okay," he grinned. "But except for the danger of slipping and, you know, possibly damaging a major organ-"

"That would never do," Donna said, her hand pressing firmly against his favorite major organ.

He tried to look stern, which was quite an accomplishment under the circumstances. "Except for that," he repeated, "you have to admit that this is working out pretty well."

"Oh, yeah, this is a major success. We've probably destroyed an expensive new bathroom fixture, we're soaked to the bone, and there's a real possibility one of us will end up with a broken leg before we get out of this shower. Why did I ever doubt you?"

She wasn't nearly as annoyed as she sounded. At least, that was the impression he got when she kissed him again, her hands moving up and down his arms.

Nevertheless, he thought it was wise to stop taking chances in an increasingly slippery tub. His hands circled her hips as he helped Donna hop out of the shower. A moment later, he joined her outside the tub, pulling her down onto the plush bath mat she'd bought earlier that morning. She reached out to the stack of new towels, taking an oversized one and wrapping it around Josh's body. He waited patiently while she dried him off, enjoying the texture of soft cotton on his skin and the feel of Donna's hands against his back. The towel still covering him, Josh began stroking the inside of Donna's thighs, until she gave up what she was doing and surrendered to the pressure he knew was building inside her. Finally, his fingers parted her folds, he found her clit, and quickly brought her to orgasm.

Donna looked dazed, soaked, exquisite. He flipped them over so that she was on top and waited for her to position herself. Everything stood out for him about that moment-Donna's damp hair touching his shoulders, the feel of her hand pressed against his chest, the shiver she gave when he touched her waist. Mostly the feel of her taking him inside her body, her soft walls enveloping his cock. She rode up just a bit until his penis was touching her clit and he began thrusting. He was surprised by the strength of his own orgasm, the moan she gave as she called out his name. 

*** 

Thank god there hadn't been any mold in the bedroom. At least they were able to rest comfortably in bed, wrapped up in clean sheets and each other's arms. He could have gone to sleep happily, except for Donna's insistence on post-coital conversation.

Not that he minded post-coital, or any, conversation with Donna. Except when she used her powers of banter to mock him.

And even then it was kind of cute. The way her eyes sparkled and the occasional yawn, not quite disguising the fact that she was almost as worn out by their lovemaking as he was.

"You know," she was saying, "I'm not convinced that the showerhead is damaged beyond repair."

He shrugged, the fate of the infamous showerhead not being his first priority at the moment. "Whatever. I got my money's worth out of it, after all."

"Yes," Donna said. She turned toward him, the sheet slipping down to her waist. "But think of the possibilities if we could get the damn thing to work properly."

An image similar to the photo he'd been carrying around in his backpack flashed into his mind. Except that this image featured Donna, not some anonymous model.

And she definitely wasn't wearing a swimsuit.

"You know," he said, "I always could buy another one."

"This time just don't try to install it yourself."

He agreed, figuring that he had just proved that Mel the Mold Guy had nothing on him. Besides, with Donna naked and happy in his bed, he would have agreed to almost anything.

"I suppose Fred and Mel could use the extra income," he admitted.

"Terrific." Donna turned her back toward him. She managed to reach for the phone and dial the number before he knew what was happening. "CJ?" she said. "I'm at Josh's apartment. Great news! It looks like we'll get to meet Mel after all."

THE END

11.28.04


End file.
